Christmas Boxes
by Bad Mum
Summary: Christmassy stories for my friends. Various characters. Chapter 6 - Tom Riddle at the pantomime for Sara. And Chapter 7 Weasleys for Writting2StayHalfSane's request at the HP Fanfiction Challenges Forum.
1. The Perfect Card

_For Xan, who made me love this pairing even more than I did already. Happy Christmas!_

**The Perfect Card**

It had taken her a while to find the perfect card for Charlie. What can you send to the ex-boyfriend whom you're still madly in love with, whom you still cry for at nights now and again, whom you miss so much sometimes that it hurts? Especially when you have a pretty shrewd suspicion that he feels the same way about you.

Now, Tonks sat on her bed, dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.

_Dear Charlie,_

_Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! And a belated happy birthday too, because I seem to have forgotten that yet again. Sorry…_

_I miss you. I keep looking round corners expecting to see you there, and I think I hear your voice at least once a day in the street or at work. I met your Mum and the twins and Ron and Ginny in Diagon Alley the day before yesterday, and went home and cried because Fred and George look enough like you (or enough like you used to look when we were younger anyway) to make me miss you even more. I saw your Dad at work last week, and he said you were staying in Romania for Christmas. I wish you were coming home. I wish I could see you. Perhaps it's just as well that I can't._

_Because what we had was good and special and wonderful, but it just wasn't enough, was it? You loved me, but you loved the idea of dragons more, and I can't complain because I wanted to be an Auror more than I wanted you. And I totally love what I am doing – even the stealth training which I am truly terrible at (don't laugh) – and it is the right thing for me. As dragons are the right thing for you…_

_I just wish the right things could somehow both have happened in England, or Romania, or – hell – Outer Mongolia for all I care as long as we could be together._

_I miss you Charlie. I love you. I wish we could be together._

_Your Dorie._

As Tonks re-read the card, her mother's voice called up the stairs.

"Nymphadora! Tea in five minutes!"

"Okay Mum!"

Tonks sighed and looked at the couple on the front of the card, walking hand in hand in the snow. The boy had reddish hair, and (because of her Metamorphmagus abilities) the blonde girl _could_ have been Tonks herself. Abruptly, Tonks shook herself, pulled out her wand and set the card alight, dropping it into the waste paper basket just in time to stop it igniting her bedcover.

She pulled a second card out from her bag, and smiled. It really was the perfect card for Charlie, with a dragon on the front wreathed in tinsel and wearing a Santa hat. She picked up her quill again and began to write.

_Dear Charlie,_

_I missed your birthday again, so I owe you a drink or two next time we meet. Hope it was a good one. _

_I saw your Dad at work last week, and he said you love working with the dragons and your new life in Romania so much you aren't coming home for Christmas. I bet your Mum loves that!_

_I am really enjoying Auror training, though I failed the stealth and tracking test last week spectacularly. (You would have laughed at the mess I made of it.)_

_I hope the dragons continue to treat you well!_

_Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year._

_Love, Tonks_

"Nymphadora!" Andromeda's voice called up the stairs again, and Tonks hastily stuffed the perfect card into an envelope.

"Coming Mum!" she called back.


	2. An Unexpected Gift

_For FirstYear. Happy Christmas!_

**An Unexpected Gift**

Perhaps her pregnancy was making her flighty and over-imaginative. Perhaps she was over-thinking this. Maybe she had just gone stark staring mad…

Whatever it was, Lily knew she had to do this.

She would not tell James. Of course she would not tell James. He would not understand, and she could think of no words she could use that would make him understand. More, he would tell her that it was dangerous. And he would be right. Severus was no longer her friend; he was her enemy, one of those they were fighting. (Not that Lily herself was doing any fighting at the moment. Someone who spends the best part of her day feeling sick is no use as part of any kind of army.)

Lily looked down at the picture that she had found that morning in the attic and smiled. Two children on the swings in the park. It was a Muggle photo – Petunia had taken it – so it did not move, but you saw movement in the way the girl's red hair was flying and the angle of the boy's bony legs as he kicked them to make himself fly higher. Both children were red-faced with cold, although the girl wore a thick coat with scarlet cap and gloves and scarf. The boy's jacket was thin, and he had no hat or gloves, only a stringy brown scarf. Despite this he was laughing as he looked over at the girl on the other swing.

She had not known then, had not known she was a witch. Sev had suspected, but had said nothing as yet. Life was easier then, uncomplicated.

Lily fetched her coat and checked her pocket for wand and purse and ginger biscuits. (Fabian Prewett had told her his sister swore by them for pregnancy sickness, and Lily was willing to try anything at this point.) Once outside, she took a deep breath and Apparated to Diagon Alley. The festive decorations were in place in the shops and adorned the lamp posts as in previous years, but the usual atmosphere of Diagon Alley at Christmas was missing. People moved rapidly, huddled in doorways to talk to friends, glanced over their shoulders frequently. Lily's own hand was clenched around the wand in her pocket as she entered Madam Malkin's shop, fighting the wave of nausea brought on by her journey.

Half an hour later, her parcel was wrapped, the packaging carefully anonymous. There was no return address, not even a note enclosed, and the post office owl would not be traceable to her. But Severus would know surely enough who had sent the gift.

It arrived on Christmas Eve. He was alone in the dark and drab house in Spinners End, his Christmas cheer consisting of a box of mince pies from the Muggle Co-op, some (admittedly good) elf-made wine and a meagre fire in the grate.

He was careful. He pulled out his wand and did a thorough check for curses before opening the parcel. He had enemies, of course he had (although he did not know of any that could trace him to this Muggle backwater), and he had to take the proper precautions for his safety. Eventually however, he put down his wand and pulled off the brown paper. The photo was on top, and he smiled involuntarily at the pictured Lily before remembering that he had made her his enemy. With a snarl, he screwed up the photograph and threw it on the fire. He did not need to be reminded of what might have been.

But on Christmas morning, when he ventured out in search of a Muggle shop that might be open to sell him bread and milk, there was a warm soft scarf of deep green knotted around his throat.


	3. The Lighten Up Christmas Campaign

_Merry Christmas Suzanne!_

_(The song lyrics - the originals anyway -are respectively traditional, Wizzard's and Slade's. You probably knew that already.)_

**The Lighten Up Christmas Campaign**

"This is serious, Michael," Neville told him, his round face earnest. "You can't risk what we're doing for – for trivia!"

Michael shook his head. "Christmas is not trivia, Longbottom," he intoned, in a creditable imitation of the new, hated, Headmaster's dry tones. "This is important for the school's morale." He grinned, and reverted to his more normal voice. "And we won't take more risks than we need. I have a plan. I know what I'm doing."

Neville shook his head, looking doubtful. "Just be careful. Okay?"

"When am I not? Ravenclaws are the clever ones, remember?" And Michael turned on his heel and exited the Great Hall before Neville could make any further objections.

The trees were in place in the Great Hall as usual – carefully decorated by Professor Flitwick in the four house colours. (And if the green and silver stars of Slytherin somehow seemed to be at the back of every tree, hidden behind the scarlet tinsel of Gryffindor or the blue baubles of Ravenclaw and the yellow bells of Hufflepuff, that was surely a coincidence.) Artificial snow hung from the banisters and candelabras, and every doorway had its wreath of ivy or holly. But it did not feel like Christmas. The grim hunted feeling that had dogged the pupils all term continued. There were no snowball fights in the grounds, kissing under the mistletoe, bursts of carols in the halls. Most of the pupils were simply counting the days until the end of term, when the Hogwarts Express would take them to homes that might not be safe, but where at least they would not be bullied and beaten to submit to a regime that they hated.

The graffiti began to appear three weeks or so before the end of term. _"Merry Christmas Harry!"; "We wish you a Harry Christmas!"; "Santa Potter beats You-Know-Who!"_ Every morning Filch, under orders from Snape, would clean them off, cursing and grumbling. And every following day the slogans would reappear. Amycus Carrow spent large portions of Dark Arts lessons hectoring his classes to name the culprits, with no success. The Headmaster ordered a watch on the dormitories at night, but somehow no one was ever caught. And the graffiti had the desired effect. People were smiling more now, daring to wish each other a "Merry Christmas" and one brave Hufflepuff fourth year landed himself in detention for sending a snowball at Alecto Carrow's back.

A week before term's end, what Michael and his cronies referred to as "The Lighten Up Christmas Campaign" took a new turn. Every single Ravenclaw appeared at breakfast with tinsel around their hair or their waist or their neck. Blue and bronze, of course – and by the end of the day the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had followed suit in their own house colours. Snape scowled from the staff table, but obviously concluded that intervention over such a minor matter was beneath his dignity; and the following day there were even some Slytherins sporting green and silver tinsel tastefully draped around their robes.

That was the night when the green and silver decorations on the Christmas trees mysteriously disappeared altogether, and the stars on their tops bore pro-Potter slogans, despite the Anti-Stealth Charms around all entrances to the Great Hall. Snape apparently never made the connection between that and the extra Charms class Professor Flitwick had given his Ravenclaw seventh years that evening after supper.

The singing began in the final week of term. Quietly at first, in corridors and around the meal tables - starting at the Ravenclaw table, but spreading rapidly.

"_God rest you merry wizards all,_

_Let nothing you dismay,_

_Remember Harry Po-o-tter_

_Will triumph one fine day."_

_-_

"_I wish it could be Christmas every day,_

_When the kids start singing and_

_You-Know-Who goes awa-a-a-y…"_

_-_

"_So here it is Harry Christmas,_

_You-Know-Who's had his fun,_

_Look to the future now,_

_It's only just begun…"_

The Carrows raged and shouted and forbade singing of any kind anywhere in the school, but it could not be suppressed. In every classroom, every corridor – even in the library – you would always hear someone singing quietly under their breath or whistling the tunes. New anti-Voldemort and pro-Potter lyrics were being written all the time. People were smiling again. Christmas had come to Hogwarts.

The DA met in the Room of Requirement on the last night of term.

"You were right," Neville told Michael, clapping him on the shoulder with a grin. "The school needed that."

Michael nodded complacently. "Of course I was right," he said smugly. "Ravenclaws are the clever ones, remember?"


	4. Christmas Party 1981

_For Dejsha. Happy Christmas._

_I've not written these two before. I hope you think I've done them justice. Thanks to FirstYear for the exchange on the Sober Universe that gave me the idea._

**Christmas Party 1981**

"You don't think it's over."

It was not a question, but the Headmaster shook his head anyway. "No, Minerva, I don't. It may be over for now, but Tom Riddle is out there somewhere still." He sighed and shook his head. "And I know Tom well enough to know that he is not one to give up easily."

Professor McGonagall sank into the chair in front of the Headmaster's desk, her face thoughtful and worried.

"You knew this already, Minerva," Dumbledore pointed out bracingly. "It is over a month since the Potters died and Tom met his – downfall – in their son. And we knew then that he was still alive. If 'alive' is the correct word." He looked thoughtful. "It may well not be."

"Oh, I know," McGonagall conceded, allowing herself a wry smile at her own expense. "But I was trying to ignore the fact. Hearing you say it makes it more real somehow. So what do we do? How do we carry on?"

"We do just that, Minerva. We carry on. We stay alert and vigilant, but we carry on." He smiled suddenly and widely. "And we have a school full of young people out there who deserve some fun. Most of them have been living in fear for as long as they can remember. I think a Christmas party is in order, don't you?"

McGonagall gaped at him. "A party, Albus?" she gasped. "The end of term is just a week away. "How can we arrange such a thing in so short a time?" She looked shrewdly at him. "I am assuming that you are wanting to do this properly?"

"Oh yes," he assured her blandly. "'To go the whole hog' as the somewhat baffling expression has it. But are we wizards or not, Minerva? I am sure that a week is plenty of time." He pulled a piece of parchment and a quill towards him. "Let us make a list."

Half an hour later, Minerva McGonagall emerged from the Headmaster's office, a long piece of parchment in her hand, and an expression on her face that was half exasperated and half amused. Albus Dumbledore might be a great wizard – _was _a great wizard – but like any man he had very little idea of the effort involved in planning a party on this scale. She foresaw that she would get very little sleep between now and the end of term.

The party was a great success. Professor Flitwick had pressed his NEWT students into service to help with the decorations, and they outdid anything seen before at Hogwarts. The twelve huge Christmas trees that Hagrid had brought in were decorated in the house colours and with everlasting candles that shone gold and silver and bronze. And if you looked closely, every tree bore decorations adorned with the names of those who had been lost in the War. Icicles hung from the ceiling, where real fairies danced, and there was snow-covered greenery around every doorway and torch bracket. The torches themselves shone green and gold and scarlet and silver.

The food was spectacular. Professor McGonagall had pressed Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey into service to help her with the menus. "Something Christmassy," was all that Dumbledore had said, which McGonagall had not felt to be terribly helpful. But the three of them had come up with a menu that met his expectations, which the kitchen had produced seemingly effortlessly. Minerva spared time for a pang of sympathy for those witches who had to manage Christmas without the help of house elves.

Dumbledore had decreed that the party should be fancy dress "just to add to the fun of the occasion". Of course, magic made this easier to achieve than it would be for Muggles, but McGonagall doubted if he realised just how _much_ aid the younger students (and some of the less able older ones, for that matter) required to Transfigure their everyday clothes into dragon or knight or fairy or Veela or goblin or Muggle milkman or President of the Muggle USA…

The entertainment was as lavish as Dumbledore had demanded. A band of jugglers, who juggled everything from burning torches to sparkling wands, and who topped off their act by juggling a laughing Professor Flitwick and several house elves; a troupe of dancing Kneazles (their tamer scratched and scarred, but still looking proud and happy at his charges' antics); a conjuror who did Muggle tricks using sleight of hand rather than magic, which the students and staff found hilarious; and to finish it all off in grand style, the band of the moment, the winners of the previous year's WWN competition to find the band with the "Magic Factor", Ophelia and the Tempest Tenne, who played from midnight until dawn, apparently without need of rest or refreshment.

A substantial breakfast of porridge, bacon, eggs, fried bread, mushrooms, kidneys, black pudding, tomatoes, toast and marmalade, all washed down with copious amounts of coffee and tea, finished the affair, before the yawning, happy students were dismissed to their dormitories to change into school robes for their journey home.

An hour later, Professor Dumbledore came into the staff room. I think that went very well, Minerva," he said. "And really very little effort at all on our part. I told you that a week was plenty of time."

There was no response. Sprawled inelegantly in the armchair in the corner of the room, Minerva McGonagall was fast asleep.


	5. Something Missing

_For my good friend Rita, with love. Hope I've done your boy justice!_

**Something Missing**

Charlie Weasley told himself sternly that this was ridiculous. He wasn't a kid any more. He was twenty years old. Twenty years, twelve days and – hell – he squinted at his watch to see. Twenty years, twelve days, two hours and thirty four minutes.

It was two thirty in the bloody morning. Why the hell was he lying awake worrying about this? Especially as – Christmas day or not – he had to be up for an early shift at five thirty. He groaned, thumped his pillow and turned over again.

The alarm spell woke Charlie from a fitful sleep, and he rolled out of bed swearing under his breath. His thumping headache might have more to do with the amount of firewhisky he had consumed the night before, but he was sure that his sleepless night hadn't helped. In the hostel kitchen, Idris, Rex and Juan were drinking coffee and eating breakfast. No one was very talkative, all feeling the effects of their drinking session the night before. Their breakfast over, the four of them hurried to complete the morning patrols and feeding duties. As their boss, Dr Vieuxhomme, had impressed upon them the previous week: _"It might be Christmas, but the dragons do not know that. Party all you like, but remember if you are rostered to be on duty, I expect your work to be as good as on any other day of the year." _They had rolled their eyes and muttered at being told something they already knew, but none of the dragon-keepers would think much of himself or of his colleagues if any of them did let their standards slide just because of the date.

Fortunately, none of them were novices – Charlie with just over a year's experience was the newest member of the team – and they got through the work quickly and efficiently. But Charlie was quieter than usual, and the others noticed it.

"What's up, Charlie?" Idris asked with a grin. "Did you drink too much last night? Though I've seen you drink more with no problem…"

Charlie shook his head, and then wished he hadn't. It didn't help his headache at all. "I'm fine. And you drank more than I did last night, anyway."

"Not by much!" Idris said, grinning and hefting a large sack of raw meat over to Charlie. "Let's get this out, and then we can go and indulge in some hair of the dog."

By tradition, Dr Vieuxhomme hosted Christmas dinner for the dragon-keepers who remained on the reserve over Christmas. Charlie had not attended the previous year, as his parents had been visiting him, and he had Christmas day off. They had had Christmas dinner in a very nice wizarding inn in Bucharest. It had been fun, but very unlike a British Christmas. Charlie hoped this year's dinner would feel more familiar.

Even if he still had the nagging feeling that there was something missing… Last year, it hadn't been, of course. But his Mum and Dad had _been_ there. With them absent – well, he didn't know. He should have asked Bill what to expect. This was Bill's fourth Christmas away from home: he would know. He'd laugh at Charlie worrying about such a thing, but he'd tell him. Though Egypt was a lot hotter than Romania, so it might be different for Bill…

The dinner was all that Charlie could have wished for – turkey, stuffing, chipolata sausages, bread sauce, sprouts, roast potatoes, parsnips, carrots, mashed swede. And a Christmas pudding that was almost as good as Charlie's Mum's. Plenty of elf-made wine too, that made the late afternoon foray into the reserve to feed the dragons and check all was well take a lot longer that it usually did and involve a lot more laughter.

Charlie got back to the hostel with Idris, Rex and Juan at just before seven o'clock. He was happily full of one of the best dinners he had ever had, slightly drunk, and looking forward to a long lazy evening with more wine, a tot or two (or three) of firewhisky, and maybe some mince pies and Christmas cake.

But he still felt – knew – there was something missing.

"Hey, Charlie! Charlie! There's a parcel for you," Idris called, examining the label on the large lumpy parcel on the kitchen table.

Charlie grinned as he ripped the paper off. He knew what was in here already. He unwrapped a bright red sweater with a picture of a Horntail knitted on the front and pulled it on happily. The sleeves were too long – Mum could never remember that his arms were shorter than Bill's – but it was soft and warm and smelled of home.

Now Charlie _knew_ that it was Christmas.


	6. Pantomime

_For Sara. Happy Christmas!_

_For those unfamiliar with British pantomimes, audience participation is part of the fun. The principal boy is in fact a girl, and the dame (Widow Twankey in this case) is a man..._

**Pantomime**

Mrs Cole smiled complacently as she surveyed her charges. Tidied and cleaned up, and on their best behaviour, they were a credit to her. The girls were in grey pinafores with lumpy grey woollen stockings, the boys in grey shorts with shirts and ties. All the faces were shining clean and the hair was tidy. And – for the most part – they were behaving nicely as they walked along in an orderly crocodile towards the theatre.

Tom was on his own of course, loitering at the back of the long crocodile. It was always Tom who was left without a partner. Mrs Cole quickened her pace slightly to catch up with the long line of children.

"Tom!" she ordered. "Join up with Walter and Derek."

The dark-haired boy made no comment, but moved forward to join the two boys in front of him. They moved over to make room on the pavement, but otherwise took no notice of him, continuing an animated conversation about football. Tom, in his turn, took no apparent notice of them, until Walter tripped – over nothing it seemed – and grazed his knee, when he smirked to himself, as one of Mrs Cole's assistants picked the boy up and dealt with the cut.

Finally, the crocodile of orphans reached the theatre and took their seats. They were highly excited, and inclined to be noisy. Such an outing was a rarity for them.

The pantomime was _"Aladdin" _and the children enjoyed it to the full, laughing and shrieking in all the right places and shouting, _"Behind you!"_ and _"Oh no you didn't!"_ with vim and gusto. Only Tom sat silent, his frown deepening with each scene. He glared at the principal boy, glowered at Widow Twankey, and scowled and muttered at the genie of the lamp, who seemed to upset him more than anyone else.

Half an hour after the start of the performance, Aladdin's high heel snapped, sending him sprawling across the stage. The poor principal boy played the rest of the pantomime in low-heeled shoes and with a distinct limp. The dame too was having trouble, stubble springing rapidly from her chin. The actor was clearly having to shave between scenes, but even so sported a definite beard at times.

The genie came off worst of all. The bare chest of the actor playing him was soon covered in painful looking red spots, and his voice was slurring as if he were drunk.

The cast were troupers in the best sense of the word, and made light of their misfortunes, turning them into jokes in the proper pantomime tradition. But there was a definite atmosphere of relief about them as they took their final curtain call. And when the curtain came up for the final time to reveal the smiling company, there was an audible "snap" as it fell heavily, trapping them within its folds.

On the way home, the children were excited, talking loudly about the fun they had had. To them, knowing no better, the accidents were part of the show, and just added to the spectacle.

Tom, walking with Walter and Derek again, did not join in with the chatter of the other children, but went on quietly with an oddly satisfied look on his face. People should not pretend to be what they were not, and when they did they would suffer the consequences.

Looking at him, Mrs Cole shuddered involuntarily, and then laughed inwardly at herself. She was being ridiculous. It had obviously just been a bad day for the pantomime cast – hadn't it?


	7. All Wrapped Up

_For Writting2StayHalfSane's request at the HP Fanfiction Challenges Forum._

**All Wrapped Up**

The house was very quiet, Arthur thought, as he let himself in through the back door.

Just over eleven years of parenthood had taught him that that was probably a Bad Sign.

"Hi Dad!" Bill and Charlie were sitting blamelessly at the kitchen table reading a Quidditch magazine, evidently putting together a team for some fantasy league or other. They weren't the culprits then.

Arthur went into the hall to hang up his cloak and found his third son sitting on the stairs. Percy was so absorbed in his picture book that he barely looked up as his father greeted him.

Arthur sighed. It would be the twins then. He should have known.

In the living room, the lights on the Christmas tree were twinkling merrily. Molly was fast asleep in the big armchair, baby Ginny in her arms, also asleep. It was hardly surprising. Ginny had not slept much the previous night, and as a consequence neither had her mother. And then the twins had tumbled out of their beds at half past five, when Molly had finally persuaded the baby to go to sleep.

The twins themselves were now sitting on the hearthrug, apparently wrapping presents. Although of course, at three and a half years old, their attempts at wrapping were hardly tidy. Arthur shrugged as he greeted Fred and George in a low voice so as not to wake their mother. His parental sense of trouble must be failing him for once.

Then, as he left the room to get himself a cup of tea, he belatedly realised two things. Firstly, Fred and George's expressions had been just too innocent to be entirely believable. And secondly – and more importantly – where on earth was Ronnie?

He turned abruptly back into the living room and took a closer look at the parcel on the rug between the twins.

It was wriggling…


End file.
